


Never Mediocre

by xenowhore



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Explicit Language, M/M, Mild Gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-19
Updated: 2015-06-19
Packaged: 2018-04-05 02:25:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4162107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xenowhore/pseuds/xenowhore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Those blue eyes look up into Slit’s face and Nux’s hands grab at his arms and squeeze, trembling, and Slit thinks his face will split in two from his smile -- he’s gonna need new staples -- but then he notices the blood.</p><p>The Coupe is badly wrecked in an accident during a supply run, and Nux and Slit have been left for dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Mediocre

**Author's Note:**

> I blame this entirely on 'Redemption' by Tom Holkenborg and sad alone-drinking. Lol
> 
> I'M SORRY.

Sand was a terrible thing to have down your throat.

Across the vast wasteland of Fury Road a single five window Deuce Coupe lies mangled on it’s side, a rising mountain of rust and chrome steaming in the sun. It is half covered by the endless sand that covers the landscape, it’s radiator spewing, triple exhaust pipes bent and twisted. Twenty yards away lies what is left of it’s Lancers Perch. It’s crucifix quiver is no longer a straight line leaning toward battle, but rather a sharp triangle with it’s totem mask and cables gently swaying in the hot wind. 

There is movement in the sky above the wreckage. It’s a crow. A lone traveller from The Bog, too far from it’s home and starving. It circles lazily in the sky above before riding a thermal toward the vehicle. 

Sand was a terrible thing to have down your throat, but it tickles and you remember to breathe.

A single hop and the crow stops. Tilts it’s head, blinking. Out here there is always danger, but there is meat as well. The crow has learned this from watching the strange shapes that make so much noise as they swoop and rush over the desert. Sometimes there is smoke and fire, a beautiful death knell, and when that is the case there is always meat for the crow.

The crow finds it’s target - a mound in the sand that looks promising. Nimble feet hop quickly across the wreckage -- the steel has turned scalding beneath the sun -- and it stops, it’s shiny black head cocked to the side, listening. _There_. It darts forward and bites at the sand, it’s sharp beak a blade, searching. The strange shape in the sand doesn’t react. Encouraged, the crow flaps it’s wings. Sand scatters gently from the movement and it pecks again.

A white hand bursts with frightening speed from the sand, grabbing the crow around it’s neck and crushing it’s windpipe effortlessly. It’s body struggles, pencil-thin legs kicking and wings flapping desperately before a final shudder and then, stillness. Out here there is always danger, and there is always meat -- but sometimes the meat fights back.

Slit tosses the crow to the side with a growl and stumbles forward on his knees, shaking the burning sand off of him like a dog. He gets two feet before collapsing forward on his elbows, back bent like a bowstring as he coughs, a horrible, deep sound. There is sand _everywhere_. Shaking, he sits back on his legs and digs his knuckles into his eyes. Ropes of saliva hang from his mouth as he struggles to bring air into his lungs but it is sand, fucking sand, and he starts hacking again.

_what the fuck happened, shit, Nux --_

Slit staggers to his feet. At first all he sees is sand. Hot, burnt orange, unforgiving _motherfucking sand_ and he doesn’t know where Nux is. Panic fights the tide of his confusion as he circles, eyes taking in the wreckage. Somewhere, somewhere in this shitstorm is his Driver. He steps forward toward the hulk of the Coupe but his boots are cemented to the ground. He falls and rolls, anger mounting and he kicks off his boots one by one. Sand pours out of them in two waves, he curses and tosses them, thinking only of Nux. _Nux. Where is Nux?_

There is a muffled sound from inside the Coupe that makes a flash of hope spread across Slit’s face. Eyes wide he stands and darts to the car, falling to his knees and sliding, grabbing, wrenching the door from where it hangs by a single bolt. The metal screeches in protest. It doesn’t want to give up its treasure but Slit’s strength is a monster and bolstered by panic. Fighting the weight of the sand he drags the door to the side and leans in, one hand holding the door frame as his eyes glide over everything frantically. “Nux!” he shouts, and doubles over in a coughing fit, hands clutching his throat. Speaking is like swallowing shards of windshield glass. He chokes and scoops trenches through the sand, hands finding seat, steering column, clutch. Then his hands alight on scarred flesh that he would recognize anywhere, even if he were blind.

Slit doesn’t know what he’s going to pull out of this mess but he slips his hands under Nux’s armpits and stands, gingerly dragging him out of the Coupe. Sand spills away like a curtain and his Driver is revealed, eyes closed, mouth slack. Slit inches back a few feet and flops onto his backside, cradles Nux’s head in his hands and eases it onto his lap. He swallows thickly past the sand and the panic. “Nux! ‘ey! Shithead!” he slaps the War Boy across the face. Getting no reaction, he grasps his shoulders and shakes him, hard. _“NUX!”_

Eyes so blue they hurt Slit to look at fly open. Pain and confusion flash across Nux’s face and he bends in the sand, trying to curl in on himself. A wounded cry tears from his throat and it’s a sound Slit has never heard him make, not once, not ever, not even when the Organic had to reset all those dislocations. It scares him. “Nux, Nux. It’s ok, _shut up_ , it’s me,” Slit’s voice sounds strange to his own ears. “it’s Slit.”

Those blue eyes look up into Slit’s face and Nux’s hands grab at his arms and squeeze, trembling, and Slit thinks his face will split in two from his smile -- he’s gonna need new staples -- but then he notices the blood.

There is _so much_ blood.

“S-slit?” Nux’s eyes squeeze shut from the pain of speaking and he erupts into coughs. Slit holds him steady through it and tries to ignore the trail of blood winding through the sand where he dragged him. It is so bright, shimmering wetly under the sun. His eyes follow it back to Nux where it has pooled under him in a dark circle and his stomach siezes. 

“What the _fuck?_ ” Nux is blinking slowly, looking around them. “Slit, my back --” he grinds his jaw together, tries to move. Slit’s hands are steady and reassuring as he holds him down. “Don’t move. You’re,” and he struggles with how to say it. _fucking dying, probably_. “it’s bad.” 

Nux releases a shaking breath. “Feels bad.” he nods, eyes closed. “What...where are we?”

Slit looks up and concentrates on their surroundings for the first time. “Those fuckin’ Buzzards.” he says as he begins to remember. “They were too close to the Citadel. Immortan was --” and he pauses, chews his lip in thought. “There was a convoy of Buggies. A Valiant.”

Nux opens his mouth to say something, stops, and gestures weakly with one hand. “Well, _where the fuck are they?_ ”

They both know the answer. There’s a stretched silence while the two War Boys realize that no one is coming back for them. No one would expect them to be alive judging by the look of the Coupe. The only War Boys who mattered now were the ones back at the Citadel, being treated by the Organic and resting until they were needed again. “Shit. We must have rolled, _how_ far?” Nux gazes ahead at his beloved car and struggles to remember the collision. He knows it wouldn’t have been a driving error on his part. “We got hit, yeah?” but Slit doesn’t say anything. He’s just resting his hands on Nux’s shoulders and staring ahead.

“They ain’t comin’ back.” he says quietly. “Might send Mack or The Ploughboy, but even that’s a stretch.” and he tries not to think that by that time, Nux will have bled out and he’ll be following shortly behind, either from thirst or exposure. The Coupe will be salvaged for parts and scrap and their bodies repurposed, boots and tool belts redistributed amongst the boys. And that will be that.

Slit shakes his head to clear his thoughts. “Nuts, you’re broken up pretty bad.” he says. “I don’t,” he squeezes Nux’s shoulders, “I don’t wanna move you but --”

“Yeah.” Nux closes his eyes. “Don’t know what hit me but it chewed me up hard.” 

“Gotta prop you up.” Slit shuffles out from under Nux’s head, easing it slowly to the ground. He crouches in the sand and feels a stabbing pain in his thigh that protests from the movement, and it’s the first time that Slit realizes he’s injured as well. “Right here,” he gestures at the side of the Coupe, it’s hot metal covered mostly by a wall of sand that’s blown up against it. “ok?”

“Just get it over with quick.” Nux mumbles, eyes closed again, and Slit wants to slap him. _Don’t fuckin’ go to sleep on me_! but he’s worried, so worried, and so he hoists Nux up under his armpits again as gently as he can and turns him, pulling him the few feet toward the Coupe. He’s surprised when Nux doesn’t make a sound, only shallow breathing, and it makes him feel sick when he realizes shock has set in.

“There.” Slit is leaning against the car and pulls Nux flush against his chest, wraps his arms around him. There is nothing around them that can help. Slit can hear the rattle beginning in Nux’s lungs, and he knows from war experience that there is massive internal bleeding. He can feel the warmth of blood seeping into his pants and sticking against his skin. He wants to look but he doesn’t. He’s not going to look because he already knows.

“At least you didn’t scream like a little bitch.” Slit nudges him gently with his shoulder. Nux gives a breathless laugh. “Gotta stay strong for you,” he pauses, breathing hard for a moment, “don’t want you goin’ soft on me.”

“Hnn.” Slit casts around the wreckage for anything useful. By some miracle his canteen is still attached to the tool belt on his hips. He gives it a shake and can hear the small, precious amount of Aqua Cola inside. “Hear that? We ain’t so bad off.” and he knows that he won’t drink a single drop of it for himself.

In the distance the sun is beginning to descend. It’s late afternoon and the temperature is dipping, the sky losing it’s white hot brilliance and deepening into hues of red and orange. In a couple of hours it is going to be very, very cold. When you’re a War Boy you know only two extremes and you learn to live with them. Suffocating heat that exhausts you in the day and fierce chill at night that makes all the boys huddle together in their bunks like a warm, sleepy dog pile of killers. Slit tightens his arms around Nux and ignores the first goosebumps that rise on his skin. He thanks the V8 gods that he has always ran hot. 

“Slit?”

“Yeah?”

“You gonna stay?” and Nux’s voice is so quiet that Slit has to strain to hear, cocking his head to the side. “Stay?” he pulls his head back with a frown and looks down at Nux, slumped against him, shivering. He looks at the peeling war paint on the top of his head and thinks, absurdly, about the last time they painted one another in the clay room and Nux dropped his bowl and it shattered, and Slit laughed at the expression on his face until he cried. He thinks about this and suddenly his throat feels very small.

“What the fuck you talkin’ ‘bout?” he tries to sound angry but his stupid, small throat does embarrassing things to his voice. “Fuck else would I go?”

“How...how far ‘r we? From Citadel?” 

“Too fucking far. Why?” 

“You, you could --”

“Quit.” Slit gives him a gentle shake. They both know that the time for a miracle is well and truly gone. The sand beneath Nux has grown very dark, and Slit tries hard, so hard, not to stare at the yawning circle of draining blood belonging to the only real friend he’s ever known in his bullshit Half Life. He wants to scoop up new sand and cover it. He starts to laughs at the thought but it dies in his throat and dissolves into a whine instead. He presses his lips to the top of Nux’s head.

“This ain’t fair.” he whispers against the skin. And he doesn’t care that he shouldn’t be saying these things. He doesn’t give a shit if he sounds like like a bitch. Because Nux. Nux…

_______________________________________________________________________

 

It is later.

Nux has stopped shivering and now lays back boneless against Slit, his eyes closed and chest rising with breaths becoming more and more shallow. Slit is both horrified and grateful that Nux hasn’t left him yet, and it is an odd mixture of emotions to feel. They’ve abandoned all pretenses and Slit runs a hand slowly up and down Nux’s arms. He traces the white scarring, fingers trailing over mods that he himself helped Nux with years ago. He remembers how young they were, how eager they were to throw themselves headfirst into war, to go out in a guzzoline fireball. He remembers how Nux refused the strip of leather and instead gripped Slit fiercely while the knife dug designs into his skin. He left bruises on Slit for weeks and they both shyly pretended not to notice how proud Slit was of them.

Slit remembers these things and he knows he will never forget them.

“I’m sorry.” Nux says, and it’s been so long since he spoke that it startles Slit. 

“Just like you, to be fuckin’ _sorry._ ” Slit whispers, his voice ragged. 

“You...you can’t let those B-buzzard fucks taketheCoupe.” Nux says, his voice quieter and his words too close together. “Gotta...bring her back…”

 _“Shhhhh.”_ Slit presses his face against Nux’s. 

“...s-she can...still go…”

Slit shifts Nux in his arms, holds him while he scoots out from behind him and positions himself lengthwise. He slowly lowers Nux beside him in the sand and he can feel the cold air hit his back where Nux’s blood is. He shudders in the cool night air and hauls Nux into the embrace of his arms. He listens as faint breath puffs against his chest, warm air tickling his skin. “She had a good life. You gave her that. Best fuckin’ car in the Citadel and everyone knew it.”

“Only ‘cause...best Lancer.” 

“Bullshit.” and he’s tucking Nux under his chin, trying to mould himself against him. Give him his warmth, his protection. He’d give him anything. Boots off his feet, his best knife, the recipe for his war clay. He thinks about all the times that he was a sorry prick and tears sting the back of his eyes.

“Slit….Slit….?”

“Nux?”

“W-witness...me?”

Slit doesn’t know how he does it but somehow he quells the scream inside of him. Slowly, he shifts his body so that he is face to face with Nux. Face to face with those stupidly blue eyes, _stupid_ , because he wasted so many years taking them for granted. He wraps his hand around the back of Nux’s neck and brings their foreheads together. Nux’s face is suddenly so open and clear. There is fear there, but it’s mostly a calm, and Slit feels like a petrol bomb has exploded in his chest when Nux’s scarred lips turn up in a smile and his eyes flutter close.

Slit feels like he can’t get close enough. He wants to curl this boy into him until there is no space left anywhere. 

“You’ll always be my Driver.” he whispers brokenly because he doesn’t know what else to say. 

Nux half opens his eyes and his smile widens, so small a movement, and Slit watches as his chest exhales and stills and the life falls out of Nux’s eyes, taking all the chrome and shine left in the world with them. And Slit does something that he hasn’t done since he was a pup.

He cries


End file.
